


Harry Potter and the Two Secrets

by realismandromance



Series: Time-Turner [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Mystery, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 04:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realismandromance/pseuds/realismandromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cryptic note from his future self warns Harry not to destroy the Time-Turner he got from Dumbledore in 1974. Armed with the knowledge that he is a Horcrux, Harry is forced to grow beyond his years and form an unlikely alliance with Professor Snape. And then, just when he's about to die, he is thrown into the past for the final time ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is intended to be read as a series of vignettes. The first ten chapters will cover years four to six; the following thirteen chapters will cover Harry's would-be seventh year.

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Even though he'd never  _promised_  Professor Dumbledore he would, Harry had fully intended to destroy the second Time-Turner as requested. Hermione had already handed the original in to Professor McGonagall, saying only that it had had some minor malfunction. Harry delayed it until the day before they were due to leave Hogwarts, whereupon he looked for it very slowly in the boys' dormitory, feeling incredibly down about the whole affair. Sure, he had his dad's Cloak and his mother's letter, but a Time-Turner was the only way in which he could ever see his parents in life again, and he wasn't sure he was ready to give that up.

'Get a grip,' he told himself sternly, even though he felt like he was going to be sick. 'Just one spell ... it looks pretty fragile ...'

However, things didn't quite work out that way.

He found the Time-Turner exactly where he'd forgotten he'd put it - in the back of the never-used bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. However, when he pulled his hand out, he brushed against something that rustled. A crumpled piece of parchment that he had never seen before had been balled up and stuffed in the drawer's rear, had  _been_  there for who knew how long. Bewildered, Harry sat down on his bed and smoothed the parchment out on the covers, discovering as he did so that it was a note of some kind.

It read, in a hastily-written scribble:

> _Harry, don't destroy the Time-Turner. Souvenirs are good to keep, so here's another one for you. So are promises, but you didn't promise Dumbledore. And secrets, so don't tell anyone else about this note, not even Ron and Hermione. Keep the Time-Turner hidden in a safe place, but don't put it on until the Snitch opens at the close._

Until the Snitch opens at the close? What Snitch? What did 'open at the close' mean? What was 'the close'? He didn't even know Snitches  _could_  open. Maybe it was a metaphor?

The note was unsigned, but the handwriting was familiar. Harry read it again, this time searching for clues to the author's identity. Only he, Hermione, Snape, Dumbledore, his mother and Ron knew, or had known, about the second Time-Turner. His mother was dead, and anyway, it wasn't her handwriting, nor Dumbledore's, or Hermione's, or Ron's ...

But it couldn't be from Snape. Snape didn't know that Harry hadn't promised Dumbledore he'd destroy the Time-Turner. And if the letter had been dropped off from the future, as Harry suspected, the possibilities were even wider.

Some of the wording, Harry found, he'd read before. He took the letter his mother had left for him in the Room of Hidden Things and read through its contents quickly, pausing at the second postscript:

> _P. P. S. You don't have to destroy this letter if you don't want to._  I  _recommend you don't. Souvenirs are good to keep. So are promises. And secrets. L. E._

It couldn't be a coincidence. It had to be from someone who not only knew about his mother's letter, but had read it, too. With a jolt, Harry realised who it was. He'd assumed it had been somebody else who had written the note, but he'd been wrong. The handwriting was definitely familiar -  _too_  familiar. It was his own.

Abruptly, Dumbledore's words broke into his mind, twisting his conscience.

_'I want both of you to promise me that you will destroy it as soon as you can.'_

'Sorry, not going to happen,' Harry muttered. But what was the harm, really? The note hadn't asked him to use it - in fact, it had specifically asked him not to - and who knew when this Snitch would show up? Until then ... he tucked his mother's letter, the note and the Time-Turner into a corner of his trunk along with his father's Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map, underneath a pile of clothes. No one else had to know. Nobody at all. As long as this road didn't lead to Hell, he had nothing to worry about.

* * *

'Harry, you  _will_  be all right, won't you?' Hermione said anxiously, peering into Harry's face.

'Huh?' Shaking guilty thoughts of the Time-Turner out of his head, Harry realised he'd been staring blankly at the letter Sirius had sent him for the last ten minutes. There was less than an hour until the Hogwarts Express arrived at King's Cross, and he was determined to savour every moment of it.

'I know you're disappointed,' said Hermione, with a sideways glance at Ron, 'but it'll only be for a few weeks, and then you can leave. The important thing is that Sirius and Buckbeak are free.'

Harry tried to agree with her, but the truth was that his disappointment had nothing to do with Sirius and everything to do with what he'd learnt over the past few weeks. Snape and his mother had been  _friends_ ; meanwhile, his dad had been a bully, no better than Dudley and his gang. There was an empathy link, of all things, connecting him and Snape. The strange note he received had been written by none other than himself, and he, Harry, carried a part of Voldemort's soul inside him, a part that would have to be destroyed in order to wipe out the Dark Lord once and for all ...

* * *

Back at Privet Drive, however, there was no Hermione to distract Harry from his own thoughts. The Dursleys more or less left him alone after he couldn't resist informing them that the escaped murderer they'd heard so much about on the news was, in fact, his godfather, who might pop up at any moment (he'd neglected to mention that Sirius was actually innocent).

He awoke from the dream two weeks after his fourteenth birthday. His scar was aching for the first time in over a year, and he had to fight the urge to let out a string of swear words. Pressing his hands to his forehead, he tried to recall the dream. It had certainly been very vivid. Wormtail had been there ... Harry's stomach clenched ... and another man he didn't know ... and ... and ...  _Lord Voldemort_  ... and they'd been plotting to kill ... him?

He wondered what to do. Should he write to Dumbledore? Ron and Hermione? He thought of Snape, very, very briefly, then dismissed the idea. So what if they shared an empathy link? Talking to Snape about his dream seemed a sure-fire way to get sneered at ( _'You're nothing but an attention-seeker, Potter; just like your father'_ ). He scowled. Was there nobody he could talk to, nobody who wouldn't make him feel stupid or paranoid?

Professor Lupin ... well, Harry tried, but writing to someone who, until recently, had been able to give him detention just felt weird. In the end, he wrote to Sirius, even though he'd barely known him over a month. Best make it seem like he wasn't worried, or he'd come off as paranoid. He gave Hedwig some instructions and sent her off, wishing he could leave the Dursleys as easily as she could. He wouldn't even mind being on the run with Sirius and Buckbeak, as long as it meant that Dudley didn't constantly swipe Harry's breakfast from under his own nose. Why did Dudley have to go on a diet  _this_  summer, anyway? It meant that Harry had to live off the four birthday cakes sent by his friends - which sounded like a ridiculous thing to complain about, until you remembered that they were fast becoming stale. Oh well, he'd only be here for a short time, anyway - Ron had written about the Quidditch World Cup, and Harry was going to get picked up sooner or later (how, he didn't know).

He couldn't stop thinking about the dream, even though he couldn't really remember much of it anymore. Uncle Vernon was at work and Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley out to the cinema. Before he could stop himself, words were again echoing through his mind, words that he couldn't forget:

_'The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was ...'_

_'And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ...'_

_'A tiny piece of his soul was blasted away from the rest and latched itself onto the only living thing left in that room – you._ _'_

_'It's not over, is it, Professor? Not by a long shot.'_

_'No, it isn't. Because, really, we've only just begun.'_


	2. Meeting

_Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup._

_Playing two-a-side Quidditch in the paddock at The Burrow._

_A new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Mad-Eye Moody._

_The Triwizard Tournament is going to be at Hogwarts._

_Inter-House Quidditch has been cancelled._

_Sirius still hasn't written back._

Harry lay awake on the night of the first of September, staring up at the ceiling as he rallied his thoughts. The others boys had long since dropped off – he could hear Neville and Ron snoring – but he couldn't sleep.

This summer had been one of the best ever, he recalled, smiling slightly in the darkness. True, he'd only spent a week with the Weasleys, but at the Dursleys he'd had all his Hogwarts things in his room (thanks to Sirius) and plenty to eat (thanks to his friends). But even that couldn't put a stop to the chills and the sick feeling in his stomach he got every time he thought about what he'd learnt at the end of last year. Dumbledore had written him a letter just before the end of the holidays:

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I have a subject to discuss with you that I believe to be of vital importance. Please come to my office at eight pm on Monday night. I hope you are enjoying your summer holidays._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Professor Dumbledore_
> 
> _P.S. I rather like Sugar Quills._

It had taken him a while to realise that 'sugar quills' was the password to get past the gargoyle at the entrance to Dumbledore's office. He'd only been there twice before, but the first time he'd been scared out of his skin and the other had been twenty years ago, apparently before Dumbledore had begun using the names of sweets for his password, and had simply opted for the easily guessed. Or had that been another tactic of his, so that students who needed him could figure out the password, while grown-ups had more trouble? Harry had no idea, but he did know he was sick of wondering, sick of questioning.

At ten minutes to eight the next evening, he said goodbye to Ron and Hermione (who were almost too busy bickering to notice) and began the trek to Dumbledore's office. His feet dragged; he really didn't want to do this. What could Dumbledore possibly have to say to him that he, Harry, didn't already know? He had to be the one to fight Voldemort ( _'neither can live while the other survives'_ ), but since he was a Horcrux, he had to die so that Voldemort could be killed. So, that meant that Voldemort had to kill  _him_  …

Harry blinked. With a jolt, he realised he'd been standing in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office for the last few minutes.

'Sugar Quills,' he said listlessly. The gargoyle stepped aside and the wall where it had stood split open, revealing a spiral staircase that was slowly rising, going round and round its shaft. He didn't even have the energy to ascend the steps of his own accord, but stepped on one and stood very still, letting the staircase carry him upwards.

He stood there for a ridiculously long time; then, feeling it would be useless to put it off any longer, he lifted the brass knocker and let it fall against the door.

'Come in,' came a voice from inside.

Professor Dumbledore was sitting in the chair behind his desk. 'Hello, Harry,' he said. He was smiling, but his tone was quite serious. 'This is quite different from our usual end-of-year talks, isn't it? Please sit down.'

'What is it?' Harry asked sharply, doing as he was told and adding, in a belated attempt at politeness, 'Professor?' He avoided the piercing blue eyes as best he could, but Dumbledore was having none of it.

'Please look at me, Harry.'

Harry lifted his head very slowly, focusing determinedly on Dumbledore's shoulder. This seemed to satisfy Dumbledore, who broke into speech.

'Less than a year ago, I asked you if there was anything you wanted to tell me. I am going to ask you the same question again, and I hope this time you will grace me with a truthful answer.'

Harry said nothing, but he coloured, his stomach twisting into knots. He wished Dumbledore were angry, shouting even, but this terrible calmness was much, much worse than any punishment. He forced himself to look up, focusing on Dumbledore's beard.

'Is there anything you would like to tell me, Harry?'

Talking to Dumbledore was the last thing Harry felt like doing, but he opened his mouth and forced the words out.

'That meeting, back in June, when we were talking about Horcruxes … I thought we were going to actually going to  _do_  something about them, not just sit around. What if Voldemort comes back? Shouldn't we make it so that he can't?'

'Patience is a virtue, Harry, but I see it is unhelpful in this case,' said Dumbledore. 'To destroy the Horcruxes, we will have to know what they are first – and please trust that I am doing my best to find them, Harry,' he added, as Harry looked discouraged. 'However, in the scenario that Lord Voldemort does return and try to kill you, you will need to be well practised in Occlumency to ensure he does not take knowledge you wish to be kept secret.'

'Sorry?'

'Occlumency is the art of shielding one's mind from penetration – that is to say, Legilimency. Once you learn how to defend your mind adequately, nobody will be able to access certain information without your permission, not even Lord Voldemort.'

'Well, who's going to teach me?' Harry tried to sound less aggressive, and added hopefully, 'Will you, Professor?'

Dumbledore shook his head, and Harry's hopes ebbed away. 'Professor Snape has agreed to be your instructor. You will find that he is proficient in both Occlumency and Legilimency.'

'No way.'

'The empathy link –'

'I don't give a damn about the empathy link,' Harry began, no longer caring who he was talking to.

'Whatever the level of antagonism between you and Professor Snape may be, the fact remains.' Dumbledore's voice remained absolutely level and calm, though Harry knew that it was not the time to cross him. 'It is absolutely imperative that the Lord does not find out about your status as a vessel for his soul.'

Harry couldn't help a bubble of anger and disbelief rise up in him at those words. Was that all Dumbledore saw him as, a living container for a Horcrux? Suppose Harry hadn't gone back in time and found out things from the Basilisk? Would Dumbledore still have confided as much in him, or would he be left in the dark – a puppet, a tool, a boy raised like a pig for slaughter?

* * *

' _Concentrate_ , Potter!'

'What d'you think I'm trying to do?'

The word  _'Sir!'_  forced its way inside his head with all the subtlety of a battering ram, and all Harry's half-hearted defences were fruitless against it. As abruptly as it had begun, the onslaught stopped. He was on his hands and knees on the floor, and Snape was lowering his wand, his lip curling into a sneer as he glared down at Harry.

'You're not even trying, Potter.'

'Would it make a difference if I did?' Harry meant, 'since you don't give a damn anyway,' but surprisingly Snape did not rise to the bait.

'I don't have time to listen to such pathetic drivel,' said Snape coolly. 'Do you think the Dark Lord will care if you haven't practised? He will be undoubtedly delighted to find such an easy entry into your mind.'

'But he's  _not_  back – I mean, not yet.'

'It is nothing short of rank foolishness to assume that, just because he has not yet returned, we should let our guard down and stay unprepared. Expect the worst, Potter.'

'And hope for the best,' Harry muttered, but Snape was either not listening or chose to ignore the remark.

_'Legilimens!'_


	3. Secrets

There were only two secrets of any importance Harry Potter ever kept from his two best friends. One was the undestroyed Time-Turner. The other was the fact that he was a Horcrux. The rest of his secrets he scattered at various intervals during the school year, and one in particular he found hardest to explain away, for Hermione was at her most suspicious.

'Extra lessons with Snape? I'd sooner jump off the Astronomy Tower,' said Ron, looking appalled. 'What're they for, anyway?'

'You know how my scar kept hurting in first year?' said Harry. Both Ron and Hermione nodded. 'During the summer, I had a dream about Voldemort – yes, I said the name,  _get over it_  – and when I woke up, my scar was aching. Dumbledore thinks that he might try and come back, and he wants me to be able to protect my mind if he does. That's what this Occlumency business is – shielding my mind so he can't attack me that way.'

It was a jumble of ambiguous pronouns and half-truths, but Ron and Hermione seemed convinced, which satisfied Harry. They didn't need to know what he wasn't ready to tell them. Meanwhile, he tried to ignore Hermione's worried glances his way, pretend he didn't notice his best friends whispering behind his back about him. He didn't need more items added to the list of things he'd rather do without.

* * *

'The Sorting Hat considered putting me in Slytherin,' he said casually, one night when it was just the three of them around the common-room fire.

Hermione looked puzzled.

'But it  _did_  put you in Slytherin – in the past, I mean …'

'I'm talking about my very first Sorting,' said Harry. He avoided looking at either of them, and instead stared without seeing at the crackling fire, wishing Sirius were in it.

'Yeah, but it went back on it,' said Ron reasonably. 'Its very first mistake, it said. Anyway, you pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of it, didn't you? Dumbledore said –'

'– only a true Gryffindor could have done it, I know,' said Harry. He didn't know what to think. Had the hat only considered Slytherin because he carried a piece of Voldemort's soul? Or had there been another reason?

'But you  _chose_  to be a Gryffindor, Harry, and that's what matters,' said Hermione. 'It's our choices that show who we truly are, like Dumbledore …'

He tuned her out, feeling ready to scream, 'I  _know_!' in their faces to see how they would react. Why did they keep bringing up Dumbledore, as if he hadn't heard enough about Dumbledore yet? Dumbledore wasn't a saint. He'd already messed up Harry's life; he didn't need to do any more damage.

'Harry, are you OK?'

'… Huh?' He blinked. Hermione's face came into focus.

'Did you just ignore  _everything_  I just said?'

'Er …' he said stupidly. 'Er … I … er … I'm tired, I'll go to bed, I think …' And that was all for that night.

He told them about the prophecy, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to tell them that he was a Horcrux. The looks of mingled fear and pity on their faces when they heard him recite the prophecy were almost too much to bear.

But as much as he had felt empowered at the end of last year, he now felt weighed down by knowledge and responsibility. The words beat a tattoo in his head –  _Time-Turner … prophecy … Horcrux … Time-Turner … prophecy … Horcrux_  – until he could bear it no longer, and resorted to other ways to let his frustration out. Combined with his unwanted status as the fourth Triwizard champion, he found it much harder to stand the whispers and mutterings than he otherwise would have done. His temper shortened and his moods increased, causing unpopularity among his classmates when he lost points for Gryffindor.

He finally went too far when he cracked in Transfiguration and yelled something rude across the room at Professor McGonagall, causing the whole room to go deathly quiet. He avoided her eyes.

'I don't particularly care what words you use outside this school, Mr Potter, but that display was completely unacceptable,' said Professor McGonagall coldly. 'Twenty points from Gryffindor, and see me after class for your detention.'

A shocked silence prevailed for the rest of that lesson.

'Harry, what got into you?' hissed Hermione, as they left for their next class. 'That was an awful thing to say!'

'It – it just slipped out,' Harry muttered. He felt badgered, belittled … what was wrong with him? Furious with himself, he waited for the sentence. It was not long in coming.

'Tonight, eight o'clock, my office, Potter,' Professor McGonagall said shortly. 'And I  _strongly_  advise you to think about your behaviour this year in the meantime.'

That evening, Harry reluctantly refused a third game of Exploding Snap with Ron (played under Hermione's disapproving gaze – she believed in homework done sooner rather than later) and paid a visit to Professor McGonagall's office.

He knocked.

'Come in,' came a harried voice, and Harry inched inside nervously, having never been in his Head of House's office before.

Professor McGonagall was writing something. She looked up as he came in, and pointed her wand at the chair in front of her desk.

'Sit down, Potter,' she said brusquely. Taken aback, Harry did as he was told. Putting her quill back in an inkwell, Professor McGonagall spoke again. This time, however, her tone was quite different.

'Potter, is there anything bothering you? Anything I should know about?'

He shook his head.  _She wouldn't understand anyway,_  said the voice in his head, even though he felt disgusted with himself for wallowing in self-pity.

'You may not have Hermione Granger's skills or determination, but you are usually quite capable in my subject, Potter. Right now, your marks are abysmal, and you are barely scraping a pass. I spoke to your other teachers, and your results have similarly dropped in Charms, Astronomy, Potions and Herbology. I am your Head of House as well as your teacher, Potter: it is my responsibility to be concerned about the welfare of my students.'

He couldn't think of anything to say to this, so he just said, 'Yes, Professor,' while keeping his eyes on the floor.

Professor McGonagall looked concerned.

'Are you having trouble keeping up with the workload? Do you need to take remedial classes?'

'No, Professor.'

'Have there been any problems with your fellow students?'

'No, Professor.'

'What about at home?'

'No,' he repeated, but he hesitated for a fraction of a second, and Professor McGonagall pounced on it.

'Are you absolutely certain, Potter?'

'Yes, Professor.'

She sighed.

'Potter, I cannot speak for the other teachers, but I believe it is ridiculous to allow a fourth-year to compete in the Tournament, regardless of whether or not you entered your own name. It is against the rules to assist you, as you know, but if you find yourself needing help outside of class, or perhaps simply somebody to talk to in private – not as a teacher, but as your Head of House …'

Finding his throat suddenly constricted, Harry nodded.

Professor McGonagall leaned closer, frowning.

'Would you like to speak to Professor Dumbledore?'

He shook his head. Dumbledore was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.

'Well, if you're sure, Potter …' She took a piece of parchment, wrote some words on it and handed it to him. 'Take your quill, copy this out two hundred times, and then you may go.'

He dragged a quill and inkwell out of his bag, delaying the process. Professor McGonagall ignored the rattling and busied herself with marking what looked like a stack of Transfiguration essays. Harry dipped his quill in the inkwell and began to write, the letters becoming words and the words writing themselves as he let his mind wander.

> _I must not use foul language towards my teacher._  
>  _I must not use foul language towards my teacher.  
>  _ _I must not use foul language towards my teacher.  
>  _ _I must not use foul language towards my teacher._

He thought of Dumbledore – serene, pleasant, never unfair Dumbledore. What would happen if he used 'foul language' towards him? Would Dumbledore take points? Give him detention? Expel him? Or just look at him in that sad and terrible way that Harry hated because he could not stand? His fists clenched. Unbeknownst to him, the table began to shake. Professor McGonagall was saying something, but he couldn't make it out. There was a roaring in his ears, as if he were deep underwater, then a  _snap_  and a pain in his hand. He looked down. His quill had broken in half, and the sharp edges were cutting his skin.

'Potter!'

Blood spattered the parchment. Slightly bewildered, he turned away to see Professor McGonagall staring at him.

'Potter, what on earth is the matter with you?'

Her voice seemed to be coming from far away. The room was tipping about, and he grasped the desk for support. He wanted to answer, but couldn't seem to find the breath to speak. Professor McGonagall had come around her desk and was peering into his face worriedly.

'Potter, are you feeling all right?'

'Er … I need to go to the hospital wing, I think …'

She let an impatient noise out through her nose. 'Very well, Potter. You need not return here afterwards.'

He grabbed his bag and stumbled out of her office, barely aware of where he was going. But it wasn't to the hospital wing, that was for sure. Stuffing his bleeding hand into his sleeve, he wandered aimlessly, wanting to go somewhere, anywhere but Gryffindor Tower. It would be pointless to go to the Astronomy Tower, even if it were the most secluded place in Hogwarts – Professor Sinistra taught classes there late at night. Instead, he made his way to the seventh floor and the Room of Requirement. So what if he was breaking curfew?  _He_  didn't care.

The room created an enormous canopied four-poster for him. He stretched out on it and fell asleep at once, not realising that his hand was staining the covers with blood.


	4. Resolution

Harry woke up the next morning, well-rested but bewildered at his surroundings at first, to find his injured hand stuck to the sheets with dried blood. Freeing himself with some pain and difficulty, he hurried down to the Great Hall, where Ron and Hermione were exchanging worried whispers at the Gryffindor table.

'Harry! Where've you been?'

Harry shrugged, grabbing a piece of toast. Fortunately Hermione seemed too eager to tell him something to concentrate on his lack of a proper reply.

'I've been researching Occlumency,' she said, keeping her voice low so that Dean, Seamus and Ginny, who were nearby, could not hear. 'I know the idea's counterintuitive, but shielding your mind doesn't actually threaten an empathy link, like we supposed. As far as I know, the only thing that can destroy an empathy link is "a mutual hatred and desire to see the link broken".'

'I'm sure we can supply that,' muttered Harry.

'Not that I don't feel the same way, mate, but you know Dumbledore said it was important to keep the link,' said Ron unexpectedly, and Harry stared at him – since when was Ron the serious one? 'It might come in handy later – who knows?'

'A link with  _Snape_? You've got to be joking.'

'You couldn't break it if you tried, anyway,' said Hermione quietly. 'Professor Snape may be many things, Harry, but he works for Dumbledore – oh, don't give me that look. If Dumbledore wants the link to stay, it'll stay.'

'Just my luck, to have Snape of all people poking around inside my head …'

'You know that's not how it works,' Hermione said sternly. 'You can peruse each other's minds, communicate and see from the other's point of view without being face to face, but that relies on cooperation (or at least a strong connection to the binder – in this case, your mother) from both sides, and I highly doubt Snape would let you see anything he didn't want you to know.'

Frowning, Harry remembered that evening by the lake in June – he'd been constantly switching from his own mind to Snape's. Had Snape been aware of what Harry could see, or was it simply their mutual thoughts of the same person – the person who had unintentionally brought them together – that opened up the connection?

'C'mon,' said Ron, interrupting Harry's thoughts. He stood up and slung his bag onto his shoulders. 'We've got Divination in a few minutes, and I don't fancy running all the way there.'

* * *

As the weeks wore on, Harry became adjusted to the busy routine of his usual classes, combined with studying for the Triwizard Tournament, as well as Occlumency lessons with Snape and irregular meetings with Dumbledore. Out of all these, Occlumency alone appeared to be going nowhere, though admittedly Harry never practised. After casting countless spells in the Room of Requirement – everything from the Patronus Charm to the Impediment Jinx to the Stunning Spell – first with Ron and Hermione, then by himself when they had to study for exams, he was sure that he was decently prepared for whatever he might have to face (a far cry from his late, haphazard arrival for the second task).

The first part of the third task was reasonably close to what they had expected in terms of battles and challenges. But the moment Harry and Cedric Diggory touched the Triwizard Cup was the moment it all went to hell.

* * *

One of the worst things about the aftermath of the events of the third task was that nobody seemed to know what to say, either to Harry or to themselves. Ron and Hermione only left his hospital wing bedside at night. They never asked him to talk, though he knew his constant silence unsettled them. His days were filled with visits – from Mr and Mrs Diggory, Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour in particular – and his nights plagued with strange spectres and terrifying voices. In between, Harry tried to swallow the lump in his throat, ignore the terrible ache in his chest and hug his knees closer to push away the awful truth. Reality was just too much to handle.

'Maybe there's something you've missed,' he overheard an anxious Mrs Weasley say to Madam Pomfrey, out of sight around a corner of the hospital wing. 'He could have a sore throat or – or damage to his vocal chords … a stray spell, perhaps …'

'There's nothing physically wrong with him.' Madam Pomfrey's tone was gentler than he had ever heard it. 'It's the emotional wounds that take longer to heal' – Mrs Weasley sniffed – 'and they can only be overcome by time, not by numbing the pain. I'm afraid there's nothing more I can do for him.'

After that terrible first night, Sirius no longer visited – not of his own volition, Harry was sure, but because of a mysterious job he had been assigned by Professor Dumbledore. Perhaps it was all for the best … though Harry really couldn't care less right then … but he still missed Sirius terribly. Ron and Hermione were the best friends he could ask for, but he wanted desperately to talk to someone whose life had also been impacted Lord Voldemort, who would  _understand_  …

And then there was the matter of the amount of deception he had fallen for at the hands of Barty Crouch Jr, and the fact that a Death Eater had been teaching him Defence Against the Dark Arts all year. Suppose the fake Moody had known Legilimency … had read Harry's mind? It was simply dumb luck – or a cruel twist of fate, whichever you fancied – that ensured the Dementor's Kiss was performed that night.

But he couldn't rely on dumb luck. Lord Voldemort had returned, and only now could Harry see how he'd been playing right into his enemy's hands. By mistrusting Dumbledore and isolating the people who cared for him the most, he removed the only advantage he had over Voldemort. Now was the time to put petty grudges in the past and focus on the journey ahead.

_'Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery …'_

If there was going to be a war – and that was looking increasingly likely – Harry knew he had to be prepared. Gone were the days of constantly feeling sorry for himself and believing that if he tried to hide from the world, that the world would take notice and leave him alone. He wasn't simply a survivor – his status as a Horcrux meant that he  _couldn't_  survive – but he'd be damned if he allowed himself to let go without a fight.

And it had only taken a meeting with the Dark Lord for him to realise that.

* * *

'Harry.' Hermione peered deep into his eyes. ' _Promise_  us that you'll write.'

He could have nodded, but the look on her face when he said, 'I will,' made up for the hoarseness in his voice.

'Glad to hear you talk again, mate,' said Ron quietly, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder as they clambered off the train. 'Listen, Mum's trying to get Dumbledore to let you stay with us. We'll keep you posted and try to stay in touch, no matter what happens.'

This time Harry did nod. The lump in his throat prevented him from getting out any words without his voice cracking and failing. It didn't matter. He knew they understood. They always did. After all the three of them had been through together, when to talk in each other's company and when to stay silent was the least of their worries.

Harry put one hand in the pocket of his robes, remembered the gift he had bestowed on Fred and George Weasley, and smiled slightly for the first time in days. He wasn't the only one going to need a reason to laugh before Voldemort was gone, he knew that much.


	5. Attack

He had no alternative, no choice, but he would surely be expelled, after that fiasco with Dobby in second year –

_'Take me, kill me instead –'_

_'EXPECTO PATRONUM!'_  Harry bellowed.

And finally,  _finally_ , the silver stag burst out of the end of his wand, triumphant and protective, just the way it had when he'd faced that Boggart in the fourth task, and the Dementors retreated. Weak-kneed but relieved, Harry hurried over to Dudley, lying prone on his back in the dim alleyway.

'Wake up, Dudley … come on …' He slapped his cousin's face. Fortunately Dudley stirred, but at this point, he was barely coherent and consequently a dead weight almost too heavy for Harry to drag back to Privet Drive. Worse still, there was the noise of someone approaching – someone slow but determined, probably a too-inquisitive Muggle …

She wasn't.

* * *

Several eventful hours later, during which Harry had been confronted by his neighbour-revealed-to-be-a-Squib (Mrs Figg), yelled at, expelled from Hogwarts, kicked out of 4 Privet Drive and just as suddenly allowed to stay, then locked in his room and rescued by a truly impressive number of volunteers from the mysterious 'Order of the Phoenix', taken to a hidden house in London called 12 Grimmauld Place and allowed to actually sit in an Order meeting, he finally learnt some of the things Ron, Hermione, Sirius and Dumbledore had (some more reluctantly than others) been keeping from all summer.

'The Order of the Phoenix – it's a secret organisation,' explained Hermione. 'Dumbledore formed it back during the first war, out of people who wanted to actively fight against You-Know-Who. He revived it after what happened in June.'

'And you couldn't have told me this before?'

Ron raised his eyebrows.

'OK, it's a  _secret_  organisation, I get it,' said Harry, frustrated. 'Just … nobody considered that I might actually want to keep up with what's been going on? Voldemort –' (both of them winced) '– killed my parents! If you think I've just going to stand by … if things are happening, if he's gaining power again, I want to be out there; I want to be fighting.'

'But that doesn't mean you're the only one who can take him down,' said Ron. 'I get where you're coming from, mate, but let Dumbledore and the Aurors handle it.'

'You think this is about personal glory?' Harry nearly burst out, before remembering that they didn't know about the prophecy.  _And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives …_  Yeah, he planned to keep it that way.

'Of course not, Harry, but –' Hermione began, looking stricken.

'How d'you reckon the Dementors found you?' interrupted Ron, clearly eager to change the subject. 'You must be the only wizard around there for miles.'

'And they're under Ministry control,' added Hermione musingly. 'Unless … maybe someone sent them there, which is an absolutely horrid thing to do. Anyway, they can't  _possibly_  expel you. There's simply no evidence, and it was obviously self-defence …'

'At this point, Fudge is probably looking for an excuse to expel me,' Harry reminded her darkly. He remembered the countless  _Daily Prophet_  articles he'd forced himself to read over the summer, even when he felt sick thinking about Cedric's death and how they were covering it up, to the point of none-too-obliquely trying to hint that Harry's story was wild, unbelievable – deranged ravings of a boy pushed too far …

A smear campaign. He hadn't thought Fudge would stoop that low. Why, he'd even been  _nice_  to Harry in third year … before he thought Harry had been losing his mind because Harry believed Sirius was innocent …

And then it hit him. Fudge – and therefore the  _Daily Prophet_  – was trying to make out that he, Harry, was losing his mind. Better, after all, to put the blame on one boy who was probably deluded than to admit that Voldemort was really back.

'Fudge doesn't make the decision, though,' Hermione was saying.

'Dumbledore will stand up for you, mate, just keep your head down –'

'I'll do that,' Harry told them, appreciating their concern but eager to ward off piles of instructions.

Both of them settled for looking sceptical.

* * *

'Sirius, do you …' It was hard to start a conversation like this, but Harry's need to know had to be satisfied. 'Do you know about the prophecy?'

'Harry …' Sirius's grin was more of a grimace. 'I've known about it since before you were born – not the exact words, but I got the gist.'

Harry didn't let himself breathe easy yet. 'How come?'

'Your parents told me, but I think I was the only one, other than Dumbledore, who knew.'

'And what about me being …'

' _Harry, listen to me._  Whatever Dumbledore might say you have to be or do,  _forget it_. You don't have to feel obligated to fight this war on your own just because of a prophecy. I know you're fifteen, but Molly's right in this instance – you've got enough responsibilities to deal with already. We won't keep you in the dark, but it might be best if you let Dumbledore and me handle things at the moment.'

So Sirius didn't know.

* * *

'Cleared,' Mr Weasley said loudly, 'of all charges!'

There was a second of silence, then clamour broke out. Fred, George and Ginny broke into a rousing chant of 'He got off, he got off, he got off,' Mrs Weasley congratulated him, tears in her eyes; both Sirius and Lupin looked happier and more relaxed than they had in days; Hermione flung her arms around Harry, causing him to stagger backwards and accidentally trod on someone's toes.

'Oh, Harry, you must be so relieved! I mean, there was no real reason to be worried – we all knew there was no case against you – but it's wonderful for it to be  _confirmed_ , isn't it?'

Harry said nothing. He was thinking about the short, toad-like woman sitting next to Fudge at the trial – Madam Umbridge, or whatever her name had been. Something about her had rubbed him the wrong way, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly what.

When he saw her next, however, sitting at the staff table at Hogwarts on the first of September with that smug expression on her face, he knew the answer.


End file.
